-I'm not the kind they are. I could swallow the coffee out
here and carry the bread away with me. And you could thank him for me.
I'd want him to know I thanked him."

Lazarus also had a steady eye. The Rat realized that he was looking
him over as if he were summing him up.

"You may not be the kind they are, but you may be of a kind the Master
sees good in. If he did not see something, he would not ask you to sit
at his table. You are to come with me."

The Squad had seen good in The Rat, but no one else had. Policemen had
moved him on whenever they set eyes on him, the wretched women of the
slums had regarded him as they regarded his darting, thieving namesake;
loafing or busy men had seen in him a young nuisance to be kicked or
pushed out of the way. The Squad had not called "good" what they saw
in him. They would have yelled with laughter if they had heard any one
else call it so. "Goodness" was not considered an attraction in their
world.

The Rat grinned a little and wondered what was meant, as he followed
Lazarus into the back sitting-room.

It was as dingy and gloomy as it had looked the night before, but by
the daylight The Rat saw how rigidly neat it was, how well swept and
free from any speck of dust, how the poor windows had been cleaned and
polished, and how everything was set in order. The coarse linen cloth
on the table was fresh and spotless, so was the cheap crockery, the
spoons shone with brightness.

Loristan was standing on the hearth and Marco was near him. They were
waiting for their vagabond guest as if he had been a gentleman.

The Rat hesitated and shuffled at the door for a moment, and then it
suddenly occurred to him to stand as straight as he could and salute.
When he found himself in the presence of Loristan, he felt as if he
ought to do something, but he did not know what.

Loristan's recognition of his gesture and his expression as he moved
forward lifted from The Rat's shoulders a load which he himself had not
known lay there. Somehow he felt as if something new had happened to
him, as if he were not mere "vermin," after all, as if he need not be
on the defensive--even as if he need not feel so much in the dark, and
like a thing there was no place in the world for. The mere straight
and far-seeing look of this man's eyes seemed to make a place somewhere
for what he looked at. And yet what he said was quite simple.

"This is well," he said. "You have rested. We will h